


Red Typewriter Girl

by Penstills



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst and Humor, Gen, Late Night Writing, Light-Hearted, Maybe Reginald knows Vanya is a writer but fuck that guy lmao who cares, Sibling Bonding, Vanya Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Vanya Hargreeves-centric, Vanya is a Writer, multi tasking queen, vanya literally never sleeps.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25626079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penstills/pseuds/Penstills
Summary: Vanya writes her first poem when she’s 16. It’s shit.That doesn’t stop her from writing, though.(Vanya becomes a well known children’s novelist/poet by the age of 21, underneath the pseudonym of ‘Vanya Pavlov.’ Her family is none the wiser.)(Until they are.)
Relationships: The Hargreeves Family, Vanya Hargreeves & Everyone
Comments: 134
Kudos: 534





	1. a slow start to a long road

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Keep Throwing All These Bottles (but I don't know if they ever reach you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23229904) by [charlietheepic7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlietheepic7/pseuds/charlietheepic7). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is totally inspired by charlietheepic7's own fic about Vanya being a writer. I hope they don't mind me writing this, as the idea of Vanya being a writer really grasped me by the neck and didn't let go. 
> 
> I'm just going to warn you right now: all 3 chapters of this fic are purely passion fueled, so I have no beta. Any editing/word mistakes are born out of love baby.
> 
> *I'm not going to lie to you, I am a teenager with no idea how publishing actually works.

Vanya is 16 when she writes her first poem. It is written, in ballpoint pen, on the back of an unused notebook. It is, very frankly, a shitty poem. Only minutes after she’s written it, she knows that. But Vanya is nothing if not persistent, so she flips her notebook to the front page, presses her pen into the paper, and writes like a girl possessed.

(Her siblings are away on a mission. She is curled up on her bed, in her tiny, threadbare room as she writes, ever mindful of the fact that she is distractingly ordinary in a family of remarkably special people. So, she writes that down: writes down all the ways she feels ordinary, presses her lips together as she searches for the right words to make a cutting statement much more jovial. She has all afternoon.)

* * *

Vanya is 17 when only four of her siblings return home from a mission. As they line up in front of Father, Vanya peers from her place around the corner, eyes zeroing in at Ben’s absence. Where is he?

She can feel her heart speed up, the more she looks. Allison’s eyes are watery, Luther’s lips are bitten to pieces, Diego looks alarmingly blank, and Klaus...well, Klaus is covered, head to toe, in blood. They’re all trembling. And Ben is nowhere to be seen.

She can put the pieces together. Vanya manages to stumble her way up the stairs, closing the door behind her before her legs give out. And then, then she sinks to the floor, and sobs.

(Her pills don't get rid of the sadness.)

(Ben’s statue, hideously inaccurate and gaudy, is erected by the end of the week. The quote at the base of it makes Vanya’s hands fist in her skirt. He would’ve hated the stupid thing. Klaus is gone within the month; higher than a kite everyday since Ben’s death, he stumbles out onto the streets, past the stern eye of their father, and never comes back. Vanya wishes she was brave enough to go with him.

Instead, she closes herself up in her room. She plays Violin until she can not stand to hear the sound of the instrument, at which point she puts down her bow and picks up a pencil, and writes until words hold no more meaning to her. There is no one here for anymore, she figures. First Five, and now Ben.

She makes a place for herself, between the four walls of her little concrete cage. She writes about a pair of brothers who go on a very long walk, only to get stuck aboard a great ship, and taken far away to a land of magic. It’s certainly more cheerful than the reality of it all.)

* * *

Vanya is 18 when she finally leaves. She walks out of the house, with a trunk case full of her possessions beneath her left arm and her violin case in her right, clad in a button up and a plaid skirt, and beats the pavement until she finds a shitty motel to stay in for the night.

(She is the last one out of the house, a month after their shared birthday, besides Luther. Vanya wonders if Luther will ever leave Father.)

That night, she sits, legs crossed, on the ratty duvet of the bed, grabs a ballpoint pen with a chewed edge, and writes until the sun is peeking out from behind the sordid blue curtains of the motel windows. She's flush, nearly manic, as she swallows an anxiety pill and tries to tuck herself beneath the covers. Her mind is racing in all directions, and if she feels the bed shake, it's only because she's imagining so.

(Vanya sleeps through the afternoon, and dreams of a fantastical world, where verses fly around her head while children dance and sing and tumble. When she wakes up, she jots down several poems about what she thinks it might mean to be free.)

Finding a job is difficult. Vanya has no experience, no references, and no home address. She thinks the owner of the diner downtown is taking pity on her, small girl with no family, but she keeps her head down while she waits tables, and that's all she needs to do.

Getting an apartment is much a similiar venture; Vanya has been working for 6 months, sleeping in homeless shelters and guarding her notebook and violin case with her life, when a little apartment in an okay part of town goes on Sale. Only days after seeing the ad in the paper, Vanya is setting her trunk onto the floor of her new home. 

(Shortly after, Vanya purchases a cherry red typewriter to balance atop her rickety kitchen table. Whenever Vanya is not practicing her violin, or waitressing, she is hunched over her typewriter, pecking away like a particularly agitated bird.)

* * *

Vanya is 19 when she sends a poem into a magazine. They never respond. She tries not to feel hurt. 

The next time, after Vanya has written a short story that she is, dare she say, proud of, she signs off with 'Vanya Pavlov.' Hargreeves is the name of a forgotten child; Pavlov is the name of a successful writer. Or, at least, she hopes so. 

Her story is published, on pg. 36 of the magazine, squashed between a razor ad and an article. When Vanya sees it, her eyes water, and in her little apartment, next to her violin and bookcase, Vanya smiles. 

(That very same week, Vanya makes third chair at the theater orchestra she had auditioned for. She thinks someone, somewhere, must be very fond of her.)

(She keeps writing. She sends in poems and stories that she likes to any magazine that is looking for reader-based material, and once or twice, even gets back a small check for her troubles.)

* * *

Vanya is 20 when Ms. Roux, the old landlady with a chewing tobacco addiction, tells her she "really ought to publish." This is said, in context, after Vanya comes home from a nightshift at the diner, and finds the old woman in her apartment, flipping through her collection of poems, humming thoughtfully.

Any normal person would be horrified. Vanya, to some extent, is. But she also spent her entire childhood having her privacy violated and her security constantly in question, so it's nice that Ms. Roux has better intentions than Reginald ever did. 

So, Vanya, under the old woman's watchful eye, promises to try and publish her work. Vanya has grown used to more adult subjects, but her poems, in particular, are whimsical in their presentation.

(The brunette thinks that if she could write a book for anyone in the world, it would be for the children who don't know how important they are. She thinks that she would like to let them know that they don't have to be special, to be loved and cherished.)

Vanya labors, pulling her best poems from the batch, assembling them in a way that makes sense to her. She sends them into an editor, not expecting much, only asking the question, "Is this alright?"

She gets her answer in the form of a letter, several days later, from a small publishing house, inquiring about her "children's anthology of poems."

So, within the next few months, between waitressing and violin playing, Vanya picks out cover art, titles all of the poems, and even writes out a quick dedication page. She even opens up a PO box, timidly asking for the address to be put beneath her biography at the end of the book.

* * *

Vanya is 21 when her book comes out. She keeps a copy for herself, a colorful spine with a ribbon tied around it placed, delicately, atop her bookshelf. She invites Ms. Roux over for wine, and they drink to the sounds of Vanya's grainy TV broadcasting a reality show.

It's only a few weeks later, on her way home from work, shivering in the late November air, that she passes a bookshop, and nearly falls flat on her face. Displayed in the window of the shop, spotlit by a yellow lamp and a few plush bears, is her book. When Vanya checks her PO box the next morning, she finds a nice check slotted in an envelope, and a note of praise from her publisher.

When she eyes the number on the check, her hands shake. Her book is by no means a hit, but for a first time author, she has done well. Her book is selling. Her book is in libraries. When she checks Goodreads, a site she follows religiously, her book has a few reviews from critics and parents, all remarkably positive. People like her writing. 

When December hits, her book has a spike in popularity. "Christmas" her publisher tells her, and they leave it at that, even as more reviews and the occasional (still unbelievable) check rolls in. The next time Vanya peers into her PO box, it is not checks she finds, but letters. From children.

Vanya opens up the first with a trembling hand. There is writing, in shaky pencil, about which poems they liked, and why, and even a crayon picture of a scene described in the final poem of the book. All of the letters are different, a few are even from adults and teenagers, but nonetheless, Vanya reads each one carefully, and places them in a box atop her fridge. 

And that night, when Vanya lays in bed, she cries tears of joy. 

* * *

_"Walking Songs"_ _by Vanya Pavlov_

_**4/5 Stars** _

_"Pavlov has a way with words that is unmatched, and every poem in this anthology reflects their prowess; each bursts with character, whether that is a vibrant curiosity or a fevered happiness."_

_"My three children (4, 7, 13) all adore her book. Pavlov has somehow managed to write poems that speak to the child in all of us; most of which just want to be let out, and allowed to be heard."_

_"These poems are bright, rhythmic, and enjoyable for all ages. A bookshelf staple for the kids who feel like the world is walking all over them. 'All The Numbers' is my personal favorite, a playful poem about children who are named after numbers, and one day, switch their titles....(cont)...."_

_"I look forward to what Pavlov shows us in the future."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Did you know the name Vanya is considered gender neutral? The way I figure, Vanya Pavlov is a very gray name gender-wise, so in my mind, all the reviewers/readers refer to Vanya as "they." It's a pretty good alter ego name, if I must say so. 
> 
> *I'm so shit at naming things, "Walking Songs" was the only thing i could come up with after 15 minutes of contemplation
> 
> *This first chapter is written in a different style, more passively, than the next 2 chapters, which are both feature time skips and show a...new perspective. :)
> 
> *any constructive critique is welcome my dudes. pls do.


	2. in the interim of it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Vanya stares. Allison stares. Diego stares.  
> The woman, whose suit is powdered white, groans before her eyes flutter shut."
> 
> 8 years later, we finally start seeing the changes that Vanya being an author makes. (And what changes they are.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it took me so long to write this chapter. I was really unhappy with my previous draft of this chapter/the next (I thought it was really canon redundant/definitely did not play up my writing 'strengths') so I basically trashed it and went with what felt interesting/made some kind of sense to me. As you can see, it took me...quite a while. The editing on this is a little rough, but we'll see what the audience thinks.
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is for all you sweet readers out there. Your encouragement is heartwarming you guys. Happy reading! :)

Vanya is getting tired of surprises. Showing up to her Father’s funeral had been taxing enough; learning about his possible murder even more so, but Five telling her about the end of the world? And wanting her to help him stop it? This is the information that breaks her, causes her to let out a sigh and wave away her brother’s concern, heading to the kitchen to uncork the bottle of wine Ms. Roux had insisted on gifting her.

From the corner of her eye she sees Five circle around her bookshelf, deft hands running over spines. He’d been doing the very same thing back at the manor; searching. He doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for here either, and his brow furrows. “Did you write it?” he asks, and Vanya feels her heart leap into her throat at the panic in his voice.

“Write what?” She replies, fiddling with the neck of the bottle, and watches his eyes widen in badly concealed alarm. His hand, resting on the spine of a well-worn book of sonnets, recoils into the pocket of his slacks.

The air between is heavy for a moment, before he lets out a sigh. “Of course” he murmurs, a little frown playing at the ends of lips, and that’s that.

* * *

(Vanya’s apartment is a lesson in maximalism. When Five’s eyes survey it, they take in this; a living room with a large bookshelf, packed to the brim with books of all shapes and colors and sizes. There are several rugs littered around the apartment, most close to falling apart at the seams, but functional none the less. The walls of her hallway are packed with paintings, and he observes that her wardrobe, as gray as it is, is second to the collection of novelty socks in garish colors and obnoxious prints that make him let out a silent snort.

Every inch of the place seems to be littered with some sort of book or office supplies or bottle-turned-flower-planter. The crown jewel of the space is the bright red typewriter propped on her rickety wooden table, complete with well-used keys and a conspicuously clean desk chair.

His sister not writing the book is an unknown variable, but whether it's unwelcome or even significant has yet to be seen.

For now, it might be best to leave her out of the equation. He slips out a window, into the night.)

* * *

In the near-decade that Vanya has been a published author, she has experienced many strange things. Her favorite has to be the unassuming PO box she unlocks every Tuesday, and peers inside of; forever miraculously greeted by letters, though the quantity varies. This Tuesday is no different, and as she collects the letters into her purse, she wonders what they might contain.

She adores the poems children send her; those letters (often decorated in stars or stickers or some sort of common craft glitter that has made a home in her sofa) are traced over with loving fingers, and carefully placed into the box atop her fridge. Vanya loves any and all letters, really, but she secretly hopes that this batch is made up of childish poems. She’s been feeling a bit odd lately (Five’s foreboding manner aside) and the woman knows even one misshapen word of prose would make her day.

When Vanya gets home, and dumps the letters onto her coffee table, she can barely contain her excitement. She scurries around her apartment in striped socks and a cardigan, pulling a cup of tea from the counter, a plush cushion from the bedroom, and a little notebook from the kitchen table.

(Here’s the great thing about letters: Vanya can respond. In the beginning, when Vanya had been sure that the illusion of people acknowledging her writing was just that, an illusion, she had savored her letters in silence. But now, with a few more books under her belt; with _Vanya Pavlov_ being somebody who is known, Vanya tries to respond when she can. She can’t thank them enough, the people who read her poems; the children who tell her about what they like and their lives, whose awe is palpable through paper.)

Vanya reads until the sky outside of her apartment is dim, and when she finally reaches the last letter in the pile, her eyes are drooping. The envelope is plain white, and the neatly written tagline tells her that is from one ‘Leonard Peabody.’

She opens it. It’s standard, but heartfelt. His favorite poem is ‘All the Numbers’, he writes, and he especially adores her recent book release. Everything is perfect, at least until she reaches the bottom of the paper.

‘Vanya’ he writes, ‘I think there’s something really special about you. You’re nothing like your siblings; I’d love to know more about you.’

The woman doesn’t know what it is about those sentences, but something in her chest freezes. She carefully folds the letter, and sets it aside from the rest on the coffee table. She washes out her teacup, and treads around the apartment, carefully eyeing the latch on every window until she’s sure that they’re locked.

(That night, as she is laying in bed, she realizes what was wrong with his sentence. Vanya Pavlov is little more than a name on paper, and they have certainly never mentioned siblings.

Needless to say, she doesn’t sleep.)

* * *

Vanya forgets to take her anxiety medication that morning, in a dazed, sleep-deprived hurry to make it to the theater. The orange bottle is left untouched and forgotten as she pulls on her slacks, throws a sweater over her head, and grabs her violin case, all in a daft attempt to reach her car on time and speed to orchestra practice.

(She’s late anyway, and smiles apologetically when the director waves her away to her seat.)

While she is sitting in her row, carefully bringing out her bow, she reflects. She would love to be first string; who wouldn’t? The violin holds a large place in her heart, and the swell of music present in orchestra concerts brings her a thrill that’s more primal than writing.

The sad truth is that is Vanya is simply too busy. Though she quit her job at the diner years ago, between writing and playing even part time with the orchestra, Vanya just doesn’t have enough time in the day to comfortably fulfill the role of first chair player. At least, not the type of first chair player she’d want to be.

(Vanya keeps her hand slotted between her knees when the director asks who is interested in auditioning for first string in two days time. If her heart aches just a little, no one is any the wiser.)

She goes through the practice the best she can, and is pleasantly surprised when she hits every note, and even sways along to the music at times, to the amusement of her rowmates.

In the bathroom after practice, as Vanya washes her hands, she sees Helen come out of a stall. Helen plays beautifully, and the drape of her thick black hair as her violin rests on her shoulder absolutely does not impact the nervous quality of Vanya’s next words.

“You play amazingly.”

The running water is her only response, at least until Helen reaches the sink. The woman shoots her a contemplative look from beneath her bang, and her next words are quiet.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Allison is at her doorstep. Allison, whose face is pinched into an expression that is half-smile half-grimace. “Hi.” The other woman says, and Vanya parrots it back.

She’s keenly aware that she’s just gotten back into the house, so her hair is a mess, and her sweater is stained with the remains of her takeout lunch. Vanya makes the stark realization that she and her sister have been hovering in the doorway, together, for several moments.

“Would you like to come in?” and that in itself eases Allison’s shoulders.

They are soon sitting side-by-side, on Vanya’s glittery sofa. Allison hasn’t shrugged off her coat yet, and neither has Vanya, so the awkward crinkle of fabric breaks up the silence between them.

They speak at the same time.

Their words jumble together into an unrecognizable mess, and Vanya almost smiles. Allison doesn’t bother to hold back her own.

“I have to tell you something” Allison says, and her smile dims. Vanya is reminded of their earlier conversation, about her daughter. How quickly it had turned sour.

And then she tells Vanya about video. And after the video, about Five.

* * *

(When Vanya first hears the news about Claire’s birth, she cries. She looks at the little article she’d ripped from a trashy magazine, and her tears blur the emboldened text. She can’t help but stare at Claire’s little photographed face, at the beaming smiles on both Allison and her husband.

 _If I could write for anyone_ , she thinks, and turns to her typewriter.

Vanya’s poems and stories are for children who don’t know how special they are. They are soothing; meant to help in any way possible, to reduce the hurt that is so often inflicted on children so young. For Claire, she makes an exception. As Vanya is writing and drafting and proposing the first few pages of _Stargirl_ to her publishers and potential artists, she keeps this in mind: _I hope you grow up knowing how special you are, Claire, and knowing that you don’t need to do anything to prove that worth. I hope my words never reach you, because you already know._

 _Stargirl_ is Vanya’s blessing to the niece she may never meet. _Stargirl_ is Vanya’s birthday gift to Claire, too young to know that the dedication page in a silly children’s book about a million stars in the sky, each different and bright, each lovely simply because they exist, and their joy in knowing this, was written for her: _To the child who might never read this._

The cover of _Stargirl_ (an illustrated children’s book) features a beaming girl with brown skin and a sweet smile, whose elation at being a star is evident.

The letters she’d been too cowardly to send her sister sit forgotten, until they are eventually swept into the trash.)

* * *

Vanya pecks furiously at her typewriter only minutes after Allison leaves her apartment. She can’t claim to know Five’s mind (especially after his time traveling mishap), but deliberately excluding her from the rest of the siblings ‘investigation’ into the strange video of Mom and Father feels odd. She wonders if it had anything to do with the ‘book’ he’d seemed so fixated on seeing.

With a flourish, she rips the paper from the typewriter, and stuffs it into her purse.

(Vanya may not be able to verbally express her emotions, but she's adept at converting feelings into written words, so this will have to do.)

Vanya glances at the darkening sky, and rubs her weary eyes.

By the time she pulls up to the manor (fully intent on finding Five and having a _very_ interesting encounter), she’s almost dead on her feet, and is seriously rethinking her ploy to ambush her brother.

That’s when the sound of gunshots ring out.

The logical person would get right back into their car, and drive away. But Vanya is anything but logical right now, with a measly few hours of sleep beneath her belt and no anxiety medication within her system, so she makes her way to the sunken stone backyard of the manor, hopping the fence that leads her to the wooden backdoor.

She enters her way into a scene that feels surreal. Diego and Allison are fighting a woman with bobbed hair against a pool table. Vanya watches, half-delirious with fatigue, as Diego roundhouse kicks said woman in the chin.

She can see the moment they notice her, because the suited woman is the first to turn towards her. Something gleams in her hand.

Vanya opens her mouth; for what, she doesn’t know, but the sound that comes out of her is not human in the slightest.

This isn’t an exaggeration. Her words are warped; what exits her instead is a physical wave of screeching energy, so violent it slams into the low ceiling above the room’s occupants when she wrenches her head upwards in an attempt to stop it, and hails down a debris of dust and ceiling tiles. One of which hits the startled woman square upon the head, and takes her down with a resounding thud.

Vanya stares. Allison stares. Diego stares.

The woman, whose suit is powdered white groans before her eyes flutter shut.

A lightbulb flickers out. They’re left in partial darkness.

Diego breaks the silence, turning on her with a glare that is less accusatory and more confused. “What the fuck?” he says to the dim room, and Vanya doesn’t dare open her mouth to respond.

Her throat hurts. Debris has sprayed across her front, and is littered in chalky bits through her hair.

Allison’s chin bobbles up and down with the force of her jaw opening and closing. They’re shocked out of this stupor by the frantic cry of…Klaus? And the distinctly attention-grabbing calls of Luther.

With one last look at her, Diego hauls the woman over his shoulders and makes his way upstairs, presumably to secure some sort of rope, or to investigate whatever is happening with Klaus and Luther.

Vanya makes her way after him, stepping over debris and around a rapidly paling Allison.

* * *

In her haste to hurry away, Vanya had left her front door unlocked. The man (who had watched her, ever since he found out she was special, ever since he found out her address written in that old coot's journal, ever since she read his letter-) strolls in, smiling at all of her silly knickknacks, her half-formed writings stuffed beneath sofa cushions. His smile widens as he reaches the bathroom, and takes the orange bottle from it's place in the medicine cabinet.

The little white pills plunk harmlessly down the drain. He pockets the bottle, and walks out the apartment, locking the door behind him.

It's the least Harold can do, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to note:  
> *I didn't particularly want to write the funeral scenes at the manor, simply because I felt like nothing but a few minor interactions would've changed. So I didn't write them, and I feel all the better for it.
> 
> *Why doesn't Vanya teach violin? Because she doesn't feel the need to; she's already impacting people by writing after all. This,,,changes her and Mr. stalker mccreep's relationship in this story (hell yeah for changes)
> 
> *The timeline is a little screwed up here, mostly because episodes 1-3 of UA sort of blur together for me, and rewatching the show to piece out events made me realize just how quickly everything happens. Apologies for anything especially grievous.
> 
> *Yes reginald knew about vanya's writing. yes he still sucks. reginald hargreeves deserved what he got 2k21
> 
> *As you can see by the middle/end of the chapter, I'm going AU here. Hope you like it!
> 
> Any comments, critiques, or editing mistakes you noticed can be posited below.


End file.
